tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68354280293091079702024-03-12T22:02:36.993-07:00 Village DiscoEmily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-30873815360317431742020-11-16T10:54:00.003-08:002020-11-16T10:56:14.737-08:00Village Disco: Closed/Open <div><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfUr4R8IJH2P-wTaFKKW5HNYXdxjmw3hyphenhyphenoNtonBz8Hk0nDmuhKE7-Pt_DZc5aTgtxP2PhWVicawGN36gnfAsrf0jHo88llGamf15Xh1RmacWBg3GkekiqptJWFEqV8aGrL9wpeo9Tty8/s2048/E43F2115-F8B9-4151-8C4C-5CA403CEA88A.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlfUr4R8IJH2P-wTaFKKW5HNYXdxjmw3hyphenhyphenoNtonBz8Hk0nDmuhKE7-Pt_DZc5aTgtxP2PhWVicawGN36gnfAsrf0jHo88llGamf15Xh1RmacWBg3GkekiqptJWFEqV8aGrL9wpeo9Tty8/w200-h200/E43F2115-F8B9-4151-8C4C-5CA403CEA88A.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>I'm moving to the New Orleans Review!</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I had to look back to find my first Village Disco post because I could not remember when I started writing this blog. It was May of 2015. At the time I was hosting monthly events at a gallery uptown that is now a tee shirt and souvenir shop. These events were literary readings and artist talks combined. I would choose a theme based on the current gallery show and invite the artist(s) and a writer to read and discuss their work. It was awesome. One regular participant (shout out to Neil) suggested I apply for an art writer’s grand and so I did. My proposal was to write a blog, which I had done before in conjunction with an <a href="http://theoneseries2012.blogspot.com/">exhibition series I organized</a> in the same space, co-curated (with Kathy Rodriguez and Natalie Sciortino-Rinehart) and wrote about daily for 28 days. I did not get the grant but this blog was born. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"> The name Village Disco came from Bartek who I knew from living in Greenpoint, Brooklyn when it was still a Polish neighborhood. Bartek was complaining about the Polish night clubs in Connecticut (who knew?) where there was also concentration of Polish immigrants. He said these clubs were like...village discos. I loved the phrase. It conjured a place that is doing something urbane or maybe just urban but in a way can’t escape its provincial roots. Like New Orleans. Like me. In this blog space I could write about art without a template, focus on the experience of looking at art, explore connections between art and life, and according to at least one person, politely complain that I <a href="http://villagedisco.blogspot.com/2018/11/">missed New York.</a> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">There were a couple of posts that made wider but still humble rounds, like the one in which I <a href="http://villagedisco.blogspot.com/2015/08/shake-it-off.html">wrote critically of a piece of public art </a>or the one where I gently <a href="http://villagedisco.blogspot.com/2015/09/rhetoric-and-water.html">objected to a local arts writer’s review </a>of a show at NOMA. One post complained about playing <a href="http://villagedisco.blogspot.com/2015/07/will-you-please-be-quiet-please.html">music in Julia Street</a> art galleries. For that I was politely confronted by a Julia Street gallery owner who said “You’re the one who doesn’t like music.” Mostly, I just shared these writings with the artists I wrote about. In 2016 I pretty much shut down the blog. I wrote a <a href="http://villagedisco.blogspot.com/2016/">post about visiting NOMA</a> after the 2016 election, about art soothing the wounded soul. I received an email from Russell Lord at NOMA thanking me for the post. I have reread his email occasionally over the last four years, especially if I feel drained of art purpose or just feel like crap in general. Jeeze, 2016 was four years ago… </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"> At some point I decided I would like to write an art column, something like Artforum’s Art Diary, but on a village scale. I told my friend Chris, (my unlicensed life coach) this is what I wanted to do and he urged me to approach <a href="https://www.neworleansreview.org/">The New Orleans Review</a>. By phone the editor Lindsay Sproul and I hammered out the details.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">I just finished my first column for NOR, which is about Mail Art and Art about Mail and will be posted soon. So, I am shuttering this venue. If you have been a reader of this blog, thank you. If you are person working in the arts and would like to talk to me or show me your work, you can find me
on Instagram <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thevillagedisco/">@thevillagediso</a> or <a href="https://www.instagram.com/emilyfarranto/">@emilyfarranto</a> contact me through my website. See you at Village Disco, care of The New Orleans Review.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7LovCvRJM4xVE3juXyRxOuP_ipYeSTdQMFeHlrrAdJVSg79c5T1bla6GYe-J3Dw72DCgUyL003m11RNv4P6mO9znQfV76T_YEfF90NeRaBji7OQ8L3W7Fon_ooEvsHjdocmQFm9h3Y8/s2048/E43F2115-F8B9-4151-8C4C-5CA403CEA88A.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7LovCvRJM4xVE3juXyRxOuP_ipYeSTdQMFeHlrrAdJVSg79c5T1bla6GYe-J3Dw72DCgUyL003m11RNv4P6mO9znQfV76T_YEfF90NeRaBji7OQ8L3W7Fon_ooEvsHjdocmQFm9h3Y8/w474-h474/E43F2115-F8B9-4151-8C4C-5CA403CEA88A.jpeg" width="474" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><i>Hello</i>. Colored Pencil. 2020</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br /></span></div>Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-65406847816516454722020-09-20T10:25:00.019-07:002020-09-21T04:18:01.673-07:00Artificial Light<div class="separator"><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: xx-small;"></span></span></div></div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>Patch Somerville</b></span><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>at The Front</b></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1508" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiitKuVkeoyGS4DaAJ864Rgz0I2bFoFnaHY_Bhneu6ud5O5IKFDyv4b-9d06ulWBKtqsQ-734pvuCOLPoXMapeMPj9BSM0YbqOnA5BxpjJhc8ZuX1v8dJwA5t0QKCOtd-XuQX8HTW14BLg/w446-h640/3858BECB-06E0-4A34-BD2D-E30DD08B5B9C.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="446" /></div></div><div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;">I just wanted to get out of the house yesterday. One of the first things I noticed about the day was the sound of rain and the color of the light, blue-grey and reminding me of the Northeast. I met my friend Adam at The Front. In the second gallery there was a show of three light works. I would have said neon but one of the gallery members who was sitting in the gallery (not the artist) said something about it being a new technolo</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;">gy. Or maybe LED but don’t quote me on that. I couldn’t refer to a list of works because I was told there wasn’t one. There was no information about the show at all actually but the gallery sitter gave me the name of the artist: Patch Somerville. I have met him on a couple of occasions so I knew that he is a figurative painter and that this work was a departure from the last work of his I had seen. </span></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><br />Two of the three pieces, one yellow one blue, were simple forms that looked like rectangles in one point perspective hung at picture-on-a-wall height. (This installation choice may relate to the artist’s painting background. The pieces would have looked different, referencing objects more than images had they been on the floor, low on the wall or in a corner.) These two pieces were attractive, but I didn’t really get them. Maybe titles would have helped. I was more interested in the largest piece, a construction of cool white light in the shape of French doors. <br /><br />I did not really have enough room to look at it. Hoping I did not sound like a jerk I asked the guy who was working on a laptop if he would mind relocating for a moment so I could take his spot on a bench directly across from the piece and as far back as one could get in the small gallery. I was glad I did. Vantage point had a significant effect on this work. I had the small room to myself for a moment. The feeling of the piece changed slightly depending on whether I was standing or sitting.<br /></span><br /><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;">Now here is the tricky part: where does an artwork end and our experience of it begin? When I write about art I am writing just as much about my idiosyncratic experience of the work, specific to my past, the light of the day, the weather, my mood, all of it. I liked this piece a lot. But I liked it partly because I had not left my house for hours, because of the rain, the meaning of inside/outside on a day like this, at at least least two potent memories of French doors. Finally, and in no small way, I liked this piece because it reminded my of an almost forgotten Rainer Maria song, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHojo0fjIa0" target="_blank"><i>Artificial Light</i></a>. When I saw the French windows, I heard in my mind the opening of the song, a jagged chord progression, some minor chords–this intro always gave me a small ache in my gut (or whatever you call two inches below the solar plexus) to hear it. I sat there looking at these windows with all of this baggage and so if you ask me if the artwork was good, I would say I it was good to me. </span></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;">I go to art to feel something. This is a tall order in sometimes numbing days. If I have to bring something to the mix to feel it, that’s fine with me. (<i>and all the invisible arcs are caught in my head…</i>)</span></div></div></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCol3uI2FXz8EG7agZ3rDikVkFjTE3S6vmyUaHWXiO82i3siDpabD-ZJW3MeRMoFK8G0YsNfaCNI0WTWwPikMyJWEwiilftshmEz-TzUcHbTxrXNha2ABHClS3LTVK85wEcQqJOlmNhE/s2048/A7C7F299-DCA1-4BEF-98C8-253448B7D9EE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCol3uI2FXz8EG7agZ3rDikVkFjTE3S6vmyUaHWXiO82i3siDpabD-ZJW3MeRMoFK8G0YsNfaCNI0WTWwPikMyJWEwiilftshmEz-TzUcHbTxrXNha2ABHClS3LTVK85wEcQqJOlmNhE/w200-h200/A7C7F299-DCA1-4BEF-98C8-253448B7D9EE.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #666666; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-73282357721337184262020-08-02T09:25:00.001-07:002020-09-05T13:08:23.162-07:00Are We Really Here?<br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";">I was staying in the beach house belonging to the mother of a friend. The stilted house was in Waveland, Mississippi and I was staying for a week to work on a book I have been trying to make progress on for two years. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";">I had just woken up from a nap laced with residue of the present COVID reality and the temporal vertigo that can come form writing about the past.
I woke like a child, overheated, confused. It was bright and hot outside and I walked away from the water and turned down a street, feeling small near the large houses that stood at strange heights, heights to avoid the storm surge of the next gigantic hurricane. Without the storm surge, with a transplant's enduring estrangement in a culture and landscape shaped by tropical storms (I was raised near woods and hills) the effect of the houses floating over the flat land made me Alice-like in Wonderland. There were no people around. Where were all the people? </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";">There was a main street with a row of brand new buildings, new since the last gigantic storm. There was no one when I turned on Main Street. Then, on the playground, on the merry-go-round, the most obsolete and poetic of all playground equipment, were two children. I do not have a habit of sentimentalizing children, but these two were quiet and smiled quietly at me. An adult (their father I assumed) sat on one of the benches playing an acoustic guitar. I do not have a habit of sentimentalizing people playing guitars but I could hear a deep and pretty sound and I could feel it vibrating in my ribs. As if that wasn’t already too much, I recognized the song. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";">In high school, my friends and I used gather in Ali’s basement and play pool and listen to Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti over and over. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2YZ_lIpG1XQ" target="_blank">The song Bron-Y-Aur,</a> is played on the acoustic guitar </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";">and without vocals, may not be recognizable to some as Led Zeppelin. I have always loved this song because of the way it creates an ache for something I cannot (and could never) name, like longing, like a question about belonging.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"> In 1970 Led Zeppelin members Jimmy Page and Robert Plant spent time composing songs and walking in the woods near a cottage named Bron-Y-Aur, which was nestled by a hillside in Wales. Like mine, it was a kind of self-made retreat. There was no running water or electricity in the cottage but their time on retreat there was reportedly inspiring and generated many songs or parts of songs. I was also getting a lot done and had been working on a passage of my narrative that addresses high school. In the strange quiet of that afternoon, the notes of this song, some remembered rock trivia acquired by my teenage self, and the already dreamy day, I felt connected to multiple times and places, like I was here and not here. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";">I listened to the man play the end of the song, including the slide, the last notes, the last chord strummed reluctantly and I waited until the sound was gone and then waited another moment. <i>Excuse me. Hi. Was that Bron-Y-Aur? </i>What I really wanted to ask was, Is this a dream? Are we really here? As I walked away I turned around several times to confirm that I had not imagined this scene. The man was no longer playing the guitar but had joined his children near the merry-go-round. Confirming that he was there though did not seem to answer my question. Then, I made my way back to the beach house to write.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Google Maps Street View of Road near Bron Y Aur in |Wales</span></td></tr>
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-51365934622958311022020-06-14T05:29:00.002-07:002020-06-19T05:01:30.952-07:00Is This Courage? <b><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">SRĐAN LONČAR<br /><i>IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO PLACE A CALL</i></span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Front, New Orleans</span></b><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>An UNNAMED GUY on an UNNAMED PODCAST</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A long time ago I read a "clever student" anecdote. My two-minute Google research told me that it's most
likely an academic legend (like an urban legend). Here is one version: a philosophy
professor assigned a final exam essay question: What is courage? The exam had a
minimum length requirement of some number of pages. One student responded with a two word essay that read, <i>This
is.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I read that, I liked it. Something about the less-is-more "courage" of minimalism appealed to me. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvM1iQL_59Le8Na6D9T_L21ZucTqYhzdFIaOcm4_UJwRTxrI3dBYUmK2nX_1g_HK9TS-pfR8D41R7WiOfuASxtv9sss-3yXovc07zXDizeDl48a5t4PYtAm7o2YdzJO6I97p62N6PkHP4/s1600/E10D0C21-DF8C-48E5-B12F-2FD3A9E2AB4D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvM1iQL_59Le8Na6D9T_L21ZucTqYhzdFIaOcm4_UJwRTxrI3dBYUmK2nX_1g_HK9TS-pfR8D41R7WiOfuASxtv9sss-3yXovc07zXDizeDl48a5t4PYtAm7o2YdzJO6I97p62N6PkHP4/s320/E10D0C21-DF8C-48E5-B12F-2FD3A9E2AB4D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Srdjan Loncar, From <i>If You Would Like to Place a Call</i> at The Front</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A few weeks ago I went to The Front, my
first time out to look at art since the confinement. In the fourth gallery
there was a show </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I really wanted to like. Or maybe it's more accurate to say I loved and hated it. It moved and disappointed me. I wanted to like it because it was
based on a gesture I deeply appreciated. (I have been thinking more and more
about the gesture of art rather than the thing of art.) </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The show was a group of works </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">by </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Srdjan Loncar. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The <i>gesture</i> was that the
artist had paid attention to derelict pay phones around the city. The <i>thing</i> he had made was a concrete pay phone, mounted it on the wall. It was perfect. But there were three of them. In addition to the three concrete pay phones, there was another sculpture, and a map, a photograph and some wall text.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I really like pay phones. I mean I have noticed them, paid attention. I have taken photographs of pay phones and phone booths for at least 15 years, though not "obsessively" as the kids say. I like the way pay phones stand (or stood as they near extinction) solitary. I like them especially in rural or suburban places, sometimes lit sometimes with glass booths. Pay phones call attention to the absence of a caller. They are communication devices, which front-load them with
meaning. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was a great story by producer Miki Meek on This
American Life. It was called “Really Long Distance” and about a phone booth in Japan that
offered the thousands of people who lost loved ones in the 2011 tsunami and
earthquake to call the departed. I say all of this because I am the choir: b</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">roken or abandoned pay phones are, from my view, totally relevant fodder for art-making.</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I would have love love loved to have walked into that gallery and seen a single concrete pay phone on the wall. If there had been one sculpture in the gallery, it would have been just me and an non-functioning pay phone, two entities interacting and I can feel how powerful that would have been. Instead, the experience was less economical and less poetic. And </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I just feel disappointed when art becomes too project-y. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If courage in the anecdote was two words, one pay phone might be its sculptural coroll</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ary. What is
courage? That would have been. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Artists work in solitude and have only so many opportunities or official spaces to share what they have made. Artists also have economic or career interests in being "out there" as much as possible which can lead to the impulse to pack a space or over-explain with words or quantities. Forces can lead an artist away from minimalism. A</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> beautiful, solitary, deeply real gesture (like installing a concrete pay phone) can often get swallowed up by “art making” and art statements. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These phone booths are also, according to the artist statement, installed around town. If I had encountered one accidentally in public I know I would have been thrilled (provided there was no artist statement nearby describing the meaning of it).</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Speaking of beautiful gestures, I was listening to a podcast
on which the guest, well-known in several circles, was prompted by the host to
direct listeners to his books, website, etcetera in what the host calls the
“plug zone.” The guest plugged his projects then gave his phone number, his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actual</i> phone number in case, he said, anyone wanted to call or text him. (I
am not naming names here because I do not want to alter his gesture.) The host was incredulous. Is that your <i>actual</i>
phone number? It was. This was a strange and and fearless gesture. Maybe this was courage.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What is courage? How does courage relate to gestures, quantities, lots versus one? How does courage relate to withholding or sharing? I don't know...</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What do you think?</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Hello? <i>Hello?</i></span></div>
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-2233006424203573592020-06-12T04:51:00.000-07:002020-06-13T07:12:43.348-07:00Ariel Claborn - "Eyes Without A Face"<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Bedroom Songs (play on Repeat)</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Part 2</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Eyes Without A Face" by Billy Idol. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e7U1YZNgwnY" target="_blank">Listen</a>. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZZn-9F-e5MyCZmsHdILr8WXWQykNiTRh7n7ROg-ogMbGgkiIuU4JxnolaHhRzf-gGPRqYpNiN_Fvwr9Kvyn-oiQVgZc-L9LcJ0Kn5l-DOn4jQMOB_t9zRHU1FOce8dp8iXtijv9ros8/s1600/AC6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1590" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZZn-9F-e5MyCZmsHdILr8WXWQykNiTRh7n7ROg-ogMbGgkiIuU4JxnolaHhRzf-gGPRqYpNiN_Fvwr9Kvyn-oiQVgZc-L9LcJ0Kn5l-DOn4jQMOB_t9zRHU1FOce8dp8iXtijv9ros8/s640/AC6.jpg" width="635" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I called Ariel to ask if she wanted to participate in this little project, I was sitting on my roof. This is where I sit sometimes to quiet my head, though sometimes my thoughts just speed up and propagate there. I had decided to take the weekend to put together a song-inspired bedroom "exhibition" and Ariel crossed my mind. We do not know each other well but she is an artist, we work together, and I like her vibe, so to say. She answered my call and I (with very little preamble) I proposed we have a two-person "show" based on a pop songs. The locations would be our respective bedrooms and very view people would see them. Without hesitating she said yes, but she had only that night because she was leaving town in the morning. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Opening the files she sent to my work email address was like opening a letter a friend taped to your door; there was something so tactile about the images. I had not seen much of Ariel's work, nor her room, and seeing the two together made an immediate kind of sense. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She had not told me ahead what song she would use and when I read the title, "Eyes Without A Face" my mind immediately served up the deep vintage voice of Billy Idol. <i>I'm all out of hope... </i>The three things together, her drawings, the images of her room, and the song, made me feel like it was some teenage suburban afternoon, after school, in a friends room with the radio on. The Adults might call it <i>wasting time</i> but we would know better and still do.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">• • •</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 19.5px;">Ariel Claborn </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 19.5px;">grew up in Alabama and now </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 19.5px;">makes art and teaches art to children in New Orleans. A communist once said to her, “So goes the south, so goes the nation.” She said, “I’ll be here.”</span></div>
Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-56200179225585764282020-06-05T04:24:00.000-07:002020-06-05T05:55:54.215-07:00Don't Come Around Here No More<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Bedroom Songs (play on Repeat)</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Track 1 </b></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"Don't Come Around Here No More"</b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other day I opened my front door and as if and my brain were actually an iPod, I heard (I didn't imagine, I <i>heard</i>) the first slow drumbeats of the song "Don't Come Around Here No More" and then of course the sitar. I pretty much lived inside this song for two days, listening on my big, noise-canceling headphones in the car and in the grocery store, on my smashed phone posed on my sternum where I lay on my bed in my room</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> looking at the fan spin, and while I was making these drawings at the table. Sunday morning I put together this private little show. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0JvF9vpqx8" target="_blank">Listen</a>. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Installation View</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Page from my Moleskine Notebook (Jacques Prévert) </span></i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Highway in Fast Motion, GIF of Cells, GIF of Stars</i> and <i>One New Message</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>My Moleskine Notebook, HA HA, You Liked Takotsubo</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Digital Touch</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Installation View, My Bedroom</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">good night</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">goodnight. </span><br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-22629716045559185742020-05-26T05:51:00.000-07:002020-06-05T05:52:24.363-07:00Online Viewing Room versus My Living Room (Two Works by Some Guy Named Ray)<div class="gmail_default">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvqo2RS2-OXl8YG2yxIgTsVSOs_n-nA_sv8KsctKsFsMVuNf7wIghbz8gV36N7Hm6Xfcbv3Rw7NvYfFruSY3Jj5hkeP5e49g3K3HzVCXb6UrYfPZ3YeRdfXXLFtX5WbHfJDK9dpEGVBJA/s1600/IMG_0192.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "trebuchet ms", sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="359" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvqo2RS2-OXl8YG2yxIgTsVSOs_n-nA_sv8KsctKsFsMVuNf7wIghbz8gV36N7Hm6Xfcbv3Rw7NvYfFruSY3Jj5hkeP5e49g3K3HzVCXb6UrYfPZ3YeRdfXXLFtX5WbHfJDK9dpEGVBJA/s640/IMG_0192.jpeg" width="142" /></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: normal;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I saw a post by Jerry Saltz last week on Instagram. It was a hypothetical email. “To: The Art World; Subject: When I hear the words online viewing room” I remove the safety from my mental revolver" The body of the email just said: “It is a website.”</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Earlier that morning, flipping though the newest issue of ARTFORUM, I looked at the phrase Online Viewing Room and was struck by the absurdity of it. <i>It’s a website,</i> I thought. Then I thought maybe I was just being a jerk. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If I am a jerk, so is Jerry Saltz. We are probably both jerks. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The term Online Viewing Room is used to elevate something ordinary (a website) to make exclusive something that is not (the internet). There is also something here about reframing, steering purpose, marketing psychology blah blah blah. I have looked at these online viewing rooms (after registering). The <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://gagosian.com/legal/viewing-room-terms/&source=gmail&ust=1590577795093000&usg=AFQjCNE-BJG6MWgr6Ufkh23FkNSzbhDutA" href="https://gagosian.com/legal/viewing-room-terms/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">legal fine print</a> to visiting Gagosian's online viewing room is hilarious, almost a New Yorker Shout and Murmurs column ready to print. "If you do not agree to these Viewing Room Terms, you are not granted permission to use the Online Viewing Room and must exit immediately." Exit?! HAHA. But for those whose job it is to buy and sell artwork, whatever; live and let live. For me, online viewing rooms are just okay-looking websites that are mildly annoying to deal with. Anyway, I prefer to look at art in person.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last week my friend Ray and his son came over to my house. While I was making dinner, Ray began constructing a floor-to-ceiling Lego tower in the living room. At first the kids, his and mine, were into helping with the tower but eventually the children lost interest, probably when a tape measure was brought out or when Ray began firmly insisting on sticking to the plan. The children went outside to play. The pieces had been put together, long batons of color on the floor while we ate. After dinner and after a couple of collapses, the tower was erected. It had a bellbottomed base that quickly tapered to 8-stud, then 6-stud and finally 4-stud pieces. It began on the floor, was lightly braced mid-way by two books on the mantle (one of Joan Didion essays the other a beginner’s Ancient Greek) and it ended at the ceiling. It did not stand perfectly straight. It was the tallest object in the room, as tall as the walls.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br />While the tower was there, it changed things, it affected how I felt when I walked through the room. Like <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/14575/anecdote-of-the-jar&source=gmail&ust=1590577795093000&usg=AFQjCNFwimiJB5fb4wLNF4coWKtzyc2iZA" href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/14575/anecdote-of-the-jar" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Wallace Steven’s jar,</a> it altered everything around it, "took dominion everywhere." It was the embodiment of the casual efforts of someone whose impulse and sensibility I know. Objectively, it was </span><span style="color: #444444;">really good looking,</span><span style="color: #444444;"> and really present.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />This has been a good season for art made in my living room, what with nowhere to go and all. This next “artwork” was not made in my living room, but my living room is where I received it.<br /><br />I was lying on my couch (looking at the Lego tower, in fact) texting with Ray. The day before, his seven-year-old son (in the context of a story) made the gesture of giving the middle finger without wanting to really flip anyone off. He extended his middle finger but covered it with his other hand. Instantly, I remembered this gesture from my own youth, this sanitized two-hand, PG middle finger. In response to something sarcastic Ray had written, I texted that the iPhone insta-reply icons (thumbs up, down, ?, !!, HAHA, and a heart) were missing some things, say, a middle finger. In less time that I would have thought possible, Ray made and sent me this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /><br />HAHA. Is it art? Whatever; sure.<br /><br />Here is my point: While sure, you can see some representations of nice artwork in these online viewing rooms, they are only representations. Even here, in these photographs, your experience of the Lego tower will be second hand. But you can make your own Lego tower. Or you can make a stack of…marshmallows, laundry, toilet paper (good luck with that one). </span><span style="color: #444444;">When your icon or emoji bank fails you, make one. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br />I guess I am glad that the art world, wherever and whatever that is, is still turning and maybe these online viewing rooms help. But, you know, you (or friends on your phase one post-quarantine list) can make stuff in your living room. The gesture and the result might be more fun, profound, interesting, and meaningful than what you can see on the internet. It may cause a shift in your perception, it may come closer to doing what art does than “visiting” an </span><span style="color: #444444;">online viewing room or traditional website (or basement of the internet blog like this one).</span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /><br />So the other day Jerry Saltz sent out this appeal to NYC art galleries:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="color: #444444;">Real Question to NYC Art-Galleries, from a Squirrelly Art Critic itching for a Mission: Are you planning a Sept-Oct show? What show? Do you see me/Roberta coming to yr gallery in our safe-bubble, let in, left a checklist, see show alone &leaving? </span><span style="color: #444444;">I see something like this.</span></span></span></blockquote>
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I hope they let him in. He seems like a fine guy and I know he really, really likes looking at art (Art). So do I, but if I had to choose, I would choose </span><i style="color: #444444;">make</i><span style="color: #444444;"> over </span><span style="color: #444444;">look</span><span style="color: #444444;">. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">If the art galleries don’t let Jerry Saltz in, maybe he can get online and order some Legos...or paint... </span><span style="color: #444444;">Or he can pick up this phone, Screen Capture an emoji, open Edit, Mark-up, and then create an </span><span style="color: #444444;">emoji that expresses his feelings... </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;">(resting disappointed art critic face emoji).</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">(2 Towers) Joe Andoe made that beautiful painting of the top of the Empire State Building </span></td></tr>
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-84136246093440792732020-05-13T08:25:00.001-07:002020-05-14T15:11:55.668-07:00There and Here, Then and Now<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7CsbkjhN7aIgcABv1KkYIOkjDvEXud2frFKw5SNIc0bdMlHqWZ9vBVrC_CkBPlAMH5PPsdEp6DoKDZsHr4KsjN3D7VyTYpPMmnH_Zi3p1rQtD4MeksCSkg-7rZ0nRKFDaOJX6nbZNu3w/s1600/ROME3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7CsbkjhN7aIgcABv1KkYIOkjDvEXud2frFKw5SNIc0bdMlHqWZ9vBVrC_CkBPlAMH5PPsdEp6DoKDZsHr4KsjN3D7VyTYpPMmnH_Zi3p1rQtD4MeksCSkg-7rZ0nRKFDaOJX6nbZNu3w/s320/ROME3.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This painting on paper is evidence of my early fumbling into painting
and drawing from Google maps Street View images. The arrow that used to guide
you through directions has been replaced by a more static, more subtle arrow. Directions
2.0. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sometime about ten years after I had been there, I was tracing my way from Fiumicino airport to the center of Rome on Google Street View, looking
for an orange tree that I had seen my first time abroad. <i>Abroad</i>. The word sounds like
it’s from a different era, like <i>sophomore</i>. I was twenty-one
years old.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On my laptop I traced the route from the airport to where it left the
highway and then activated street view for a closer look. I remember the taxi was going down hill when I saw outside my window on the left, a stone wall and over the top of the wall I saw the orange tree. I had never seen an orange tree having spent all of my time in the north east. The bight orbs nested within a roundish green form looked other-worldly. The fact that it was behind a garden wall made me feel lucky for having caught sight of it. That feeling of wonder registered so deeply that ten years later I could still bring it up. Ten years later I searched for directions from Fiumicino to Via Cola di Rienzo, the street the hotel was on. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I was looking back on this route a decade after having been there in the flesh, in person, in a taxi. I am now looking at this drawing several years after drawing it (in the flesh, in person, in my room in New Orleans, as it were).</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In this painting, the gaze is pointed forward, or the
opposite direction of forward if the arrow is to be believed. The paper I used is brittle, not meant for drawing or
painting. The painting includes not only the obsolete icon but a water stain in the sky.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I made the second painting at the same time and on the same
route, pursuant of that orange tree I caught a glimpse of from a taxi at the
very end of the last millennium. In this one I drew the arrow and trailing white line that appeared when one turned to view to the side of the directed route. I am constantly looking off the path for better or worse.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Why did I look back along this route at all? Simple: I was moved by an
orange tree. Why am I looking back along the more metaphorical route
now?</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Both retracings weave
together the past and the present. Here I am in the future once again
looking at some picture that is, as they say, neither here nor there. All of
this (the pictures and what I am doing now) shows a contradiction of intent,
directions pointing one way, and also the other All along I have been painting, not from a defined point or toward a defined goal, but from and towards something I cannot name, sone side view, some distance that never takes form.</span></div>
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<br />Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-71120793726001902082020-05-07T19:56:00.001-07:002020-05-08T19:17:23.312-07:00Sugar, it's Emily. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />I have been looking at my old artwork (and newer artwork) on the walls of my room. After a gap–full of over-thinking, a day-job, home-schooling, avoiding complicated feelings–in which my walls remained blank, I put an old painting on the large wall. I wrote about this in my last post. Then, I looked through a box of small drawings and set two aside. One is a self portrait (sunbathing) I made sixteen years ago when I was living in France and as alone as I am now, in a stretch of time, which like now, seemed occasionally to stand still. There were empty hours of the day and sometimes I would go on my little terrace and lie in the sun. The other painting is a portrait of Sugar made from a snapshot taken in our shared kitchen on Jewel Street in Brooklyn. That was fifteen years ago.I taped the drawing of Sugar on the wall next to my self portrait from the year before we met.<br /><br />I made about thirty self-portraits in acrylic paint on typing paper from photographs taken on my first digital camera, which had a screen that swung out for taking what weren't yet called selfies. I have never liked having my picture taken because looking at the result was always kind of spooky. The person I saw in photographs did not resemble <i>me</i>, the person looking outward. I took these photographs the way I talk to myself aloud when I am alone for thirty hours or more, for the company, I guess. In France, alone with my digital camera, I had the idea that I could cure my photo-phobia (Scopophobia, scoptophobia, or ophthalmophobia). If I could become accustomed to how I looked in photographs, I would no longer feel strange seeing them. To some degree it worked. I don't think any these paintings really look like me but they look like the photographs I took. And they feel like me, feel like I remember feeling, quiet and alone, for better and worse. I can remember vividly the sun on my skin, the little terrace outside my borrowed studio apartment, outside a little village in Provence. I can see the heat of the sun on my face in the painting. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is Sugar. When I moved back from France I went to New York. I found a room in an shared apartment in Greenpoint. I wanted to learn Polish, had been studying a little, and so moving in with four or five or six Polish men and the wife of one of the men seemed perfect. I had a room in which I could paint and sleep and sit at a small round table and drink one Brooklyn Lager in the evening. I got along fine with most of the roommates but Sugar and I became friends. It was a friendship that happened in the smallest of margins of two lives that barely overlapped. In the evenings </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I would knock on Sugar's door with a frequency or manner that made me think of that line from </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Royal Tenenbaums </i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Sugar, it's Eli." I would say "Sugar it's Emily." in Owen Wilson's voice. I wouldn't have guessed I would know Sugar fifteen years later. I used to prefer to live with strangers and not so that I could make life-long friends.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, I see Sugar in the apartment taking my door off the hinges to use as a table for our Christmas dinner. I see us playing baseball in </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">McCarren Park on Easter, the Polish boys shouting <i>D</i></span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">o domu! Do domu!</i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, go home, go home, the spring I was falling in love. Sugar came Upstate to the party to celebrate my marriage and I have a photograph of Sugar holding my son after we had moved to New Orleans. From the window of his second floor apartment in Queens, I see Sugar below playing with my children in the fresh new snow, their first sight ever of snow, their first trip back to New York since the divorce. We have gone years without seeing each other but Sugar has been there for events in my life and has still been there after they ended. Sugar always leaves me voicemails on holidays, on my birthdays, long, strangely formal messages I always save. He wishes me love and money and health and happiness.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I look at these drawings now to think about painting and art, and what I will draw or paint next but I think of other things. This is the way life has always distracted me from art. I call Sugar to say hello, to say I am thinking about him. He is already at LaGuardia working on the new terminal. I want to tell him that I ordered electrical tools and watched YouTube videos and </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">fixed my washing machine</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. But really I want to say </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Sugar, where we are going?</i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <i>Why has everything changed? Why has nothing changed? </i>I want to ask him something I couldn't find words for and he probably doesn't know.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />What did I want these drawings to tell me? What did I want Sugar to tell me on the phone? I don't know. When I would knock on his door in in our apartment on Jewel Street, I didn't necessarily know then either. <i>Chcesch herbat</i></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 24.7px;"><span style="color: #666666;"><i>ę? </i>Want tea? </span></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe I was just taking a break from making some painting that wouldn't mean much in the long run either. We don't usually understand the meaning of things we do, of the things we make, but at some point they should point to something, shouldn't they? The art is the record that we witnessed our lives as did our friends. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe these drawings just say: this is how you lived and made art, this is someone you knew and know, someone you were and are. They say, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">t</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">his was me and this was Sugar,</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> moving unbelievably fast and standing perfectly still. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioC9elywRWOjsUUcwUrJbAUiBxuV3Yo47YzO1ACoTnZwtSliRkG9JXMpijSQxMxZlBunVQIWmLfpbPmkAl36uf81fSUrQT3HYCtnRN4zBhcKNLxtkzMkprByxSrUYUEfo4MzMcY4No64s/s1600/2B960A73-0C92-4EC9-A8E2-74501831A949.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioC9elywRWOjsUUcwUrJbAUiBxuV3Yo47YzO1ACoTnZwtSliRkG9JXMpijSQxMxZlBunVQIWmLfpbPmkAl36uf81fSUrQT3HYCtnRN4zBhcKNLxtkzMkprByxSrUYUEfo4MzMcY4No64s/s640/2B960A73-0C92-4EC9-A8E2-74501831A949.jpeg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-89322113097541405242020-05-04T08:23:00.002-07:002020-05-05T08:07:07.240-07:00Are We There Yet?<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO13k-CA-dYSrMAUSSfsKHdpaHl8UbKzXjXQ65TEo4g96DpntVSINHgnxS5oyGhgPFYbZGYyR5rpkKLdjOUGXcXPyODu1IDkGQgVEVMnvW0XtiRZLDYPSKKgxkiOOWHXVgrLdQNGygwAk/s1600/57974178-A895-4E99-8754-9C4A0ED4E369+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO13k-CA-dYSrMAUSSfsKHdpaHl8UbKzXjXQ65TEo4g96DpntVSINHgnxS5oyGhgPFYbZGYyR5rpkKLdjOUGXcXPyODu1IDkGQgVEVMnvW0XtiRZLDYPSKKgxkiOOWHXVgrLdQNGygwAk/s320/57974178-A895-4E99-8754-9C4A0ED4E369+%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My walls have been empty for a few days. And in spite of
what I said just a week or so ago, I had no compulsion to fill the space, to
fill the vacuum. I guess my thoughts were elsewhere, or so far inside my head I
was no longer looking at the walls of the room; I was staring at the ceiling of
my brain. I get like that, over-thinking, shut in, my senses sort of ossifying while I get lists of things done.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eO98ii-tRyz200tul22hgGL2dy-Qkn5PCGrSl2FqLpWAb5ibFicRVyeWAYU0LCmab-VmKFHxljGSvBhyphenhyphenB8q5Jl0n18n0mS_sxmPXRfZe9lmf59uEz8wWFU4XmiX4A-LqgP9vZUV9l8w/s1600/78FB1C0B-FDA2-4228-8A5B-DD99BD86D99D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eO98ii-tRyz200tul22hgGL2dy-Qkn5PCGrSl2FqLpWAb5ibFicRVyeWAYU0LCmab-VmKFHxljGSvBhyphenhyphenB8q5Jl0n18n0mS_sxmPXRfZe9lmf59uEz8wWFU4XmiX4A-LqgP9vZUV9l8w/s400/78FB1C0B-FDA2-4228-8A5B-DD99BD86D99D.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And for the past week or so I was fine with the empty walls. I felt no desire to draw or
paint or I was too busy with other things to draw or paint, or as I said, I
have been too much in my head. Then yesterday I just made a move. I thought,
anything will do. I will just put something there on the wall to look at and then
have a thought about it. That was the robotic tone and unimpassioned way I went
about pulling from my closet, a roll of large paintings on paper. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If my motivation for putting work on the walls has been to see
where I have been so I could see where I was going, it did not seem to be
working. I am nowhere and doesn't that fit the moment? We go nowhere as mandated by the pandemic. But in the name of follow-through, I
made a decision. This large landscape is unlike any other painting I have made
in recent years. It is just a sketch really, made in black acrylic paint and
not on very good paper. The source photo came from a book of Russian miniature lacquer paintings on wood boxes from a town called Fedoskino. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In both the source image and my painting, I liked
the winding road, the brutal building, and the shape of the tree on the right. It is not at all a great painting, I would hardly call it a painting but I tacked it to the wall and now I am looking at it. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My lack of connection to this image had given me a kind of
freedom when I was painting it. I had no history on this road in Russia.
Still, something about the image made me nostalgic. The photograph in the book was black and white and vertically formatted. Just now I went to Google maps to try
to find this road, this view. To the map search bar I typed in Fedoskino, a village outside of Moscow. I saw the factory on the map, I
saw the blue line of the river near it which must be the one in the photograph. I went to Google Street View. I clicked back and forth over the
bridge but could not find the perspective in the photograph. Strange.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzPmCPVOcXKYmz24AI83m3Y640XRaETVas2v-uwnijRvhEwM1iQCFsNCveXqA6GmJkZmICosdwGDpwa2Edk4Fg628BBLV_DnATRQPDYuxkf1PlSe0C1GCkOsuzVNQ0zWu3oImRD60tyk/s1600/Screen+shot+2020-05-04+at+6.15.14+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1223" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzPmCPVOcXKYmz24AI83m3Y640XRaETVas2v-uwnijRvhEwM1iQCFsNCveXqA6GmJkZmICosdwGDpwa2Edk4Fg628BBLV_DnATRQPDYuxkf1PlSe0C1GCkOsuzVNQ0zWu3oImRD60tyk/s640/Screen+shot+2020-05-04+at+6.15.14+AM.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The landscape surrounding the factory reminded me of where I am from in Upstate New York, and also reminded me of Poland, where I have visited twice, and just looked like a landscape I wanted to linger in, have lingered in, a kind of déjà-vu. I was no longer lost in my head but I was beginning to feel lost on the other side of the over-thinking, a kind of through the looking glass. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Do you remember the first time you had déjà-vu and tried to explain it to a grown-up?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I moved the viewpoint back and forth closer and farther from the factory but I could not replicate the view. From the bridge, the factory was way too far in the distance. Did they move the bridge? Is that the same large tree? But
it looks smaller... How was this photograph shot so high off the ground? A bucket
truck? This state of not understanding, of puzzling, is the baseline state of a child who does not understand physics, optics, logistics of much beyond tactile experience. This feeling, this state, was already activated in me when I turned the pages of the book to look at these strange little paintings. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I cannot remember where I got this
book or why. These paintings are truly bizarre and not remotely what I ever would describe as my taste. Look at this one of a bear driving a sled under a black
sky! The sky in many of these paintings is <i>black</i>. These paintings are disorienting and spark the low register terror a child feels. The fact that they are painted on boxes also also tunes my mind to a static-y frequency of childhood, the encountering of curious objects, the smell of old containers at a grandparent's house, the spell of strange images. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aTdbACO2MF-rQx3nwlDqKGRnuTZnuEoICnKh-ddymBvqFOKILRua3hw-wDFHKL3SD9kOOlvMNZqbywKQDaIDeqXJeGhd7d7m2Jt5eZrvv6eMhKpQ82E6WhDkn1FO6I-reRIyYzD3OTI/s1600/51C8B3DE-B9A6-4ECD-96A0-3ED68BCC5E8B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="926" data-original-width="1600" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3aTdbACO2MF-rQx3nwlDqKGRnuTZnuEoICnKh-ddymBvqFOKILRua3hw-wDFHKL3SD9kOOlvMNZqbywKQDaIDeqXJeGhd7d7m2Jt5eZrvv6eMhKpQ82E6WhDkn1FO6I-reRIyYzD3OTI/s640/51C8B3DE-B9A6-4ECD-96A0-3ED68BCC5E8B.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Since the pandemic drove us all indoors, the world has lost
some of its form, some of its solidity. Much of it appears in image, through windows or on screens. Looking at these weird paintings with black skies and figures that seem to be in a trance, looking at them first thing in the morning when the sky outside my window is still dark, has made me feel less certain that I know the world I have woken into.
I feel outside my own taste in art, outside my own urge to draw and write things, outside my timeline, my life's continuity. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These
little paintings are disorienting and this particular feeling of disorientation
resembles that of a child. Children are new here, lacking the background
knowledge to dismiss this or that. Yhe world comes in funhouse mirror proportions, shifting and unreliable. A child's</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> mind is different than that of a forty-something year old art-educated person who had just been trying to stick to the program, look at something on the wall and then make her next painting. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: center;">There are lots of people whose job it is to keep things in order. Artists and writers should invite
disorientation. When young children wake up they are lost. After every nap,
every sleep, they have this look that says something like </span><i style="color: #666666; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">where am I, what is
this place?</i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: center;"> We lose this. We grow up and wake up thinking we know lots of things for certain and that is how we proceed with the day. But what really do we know for sure? What do I know today? The sky outside was black when I started writing but it is lightening now. It's time to make </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">coffee, do grown-up things, pick things up and put them down in proper places, which no longer look quite right.</span></div>
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-82055178169225599732020-04-25T16:25:00.000-07:002020-04-26T06:48:37.902-07:00You're the Man, Prince Charles.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_nOoUYEyVVXSWjew807npDHqxJ621ctOjAZgVoW6yMXOmu6J8mO2KTDr3fn-CvCcllxr6FBFjRe-z2QaLf42ueIzo3HKsZ97UkhD3R-SxJweSvgLWcSQ-0ZZfghnLKwOcbDzQN4W9v0/s1600/BAA4EFED-4F7A-4BF1-AB78-C5ADBACEBBCC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1437" data-original-width="1600" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_nOoUYEyVVXSWjew807npDHqxJ621ctOjAZgVoW6yMXOmu6J8mO2KTDr3fn-CvCcllxr6FBFjRe-z2QaLf42ueIzo3HKsZ97UkhD3R-SxJweSvgLWcSQ-0ZZfghnLKwOcbDzQN4W9v0/s640/BAA4EFED-4F7A-4BF1-AB78-C5ADBACEBBCC.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Village Majorca, 1990 Prince Charles</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had a moment of panic this morning. I could not find my book of Prince Charles's watercolors. I bought this book in the gift shop at The Morgan in New York City a few years ago. I love this book. I love the Prince of Wales and not because I am not one of those fans of the crown or anything like that. When I finally</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> found the book, rather than taking it over to the table, I opened it here on the floor by my bookshelf and drank my coffee on the rug. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">like that he signs his work "C." I'd like to know him and call him <i>C</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE BODY IN THIS PLACE</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The text that accompanies the paintings describe the landscape the weather, technical challenges he encountered and his childhood memories of some of these places. He frequently describes his body in space. For example, he </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"sheltered pathetically under a leafless tree." Or, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"the setting winter sun created the sort of dramatic display that had me fumbling for my paint box." And this, "I was sitting on a grass slope amongst a large quantity of sheep droppings with my back beginning to give out and with pins and needles in my bottom...!" </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Don't you want this guy to be king?!? Look at this picture of him painting. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">LIKE TURNER, BUT</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He likes Turner;<i> I</i> like Turner! Who doesn't like Turner. Prince Charles writes, "Turner was one of those geniuses of English art who understood so well and whose sketches and paintings betray this deep and unstoppable passion for the beauty of God's creation." </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His watercolors show he likes Turner but of course he is not as good. No one is. Turner's paintings are other-worldly. Prince Charles's are worldly. This is something I like about them, about this book. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">PRETTY PICTURES, PRETTY TALK </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I like the way Prince Charles writes, the language he uses. I wonder if he talks like this. I hope he does. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The way he articulates why he loves painting. He is so sentimental. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Despite the ascot on the language and exclamation points (which convey passion as they neuter it) I am right there with him in the way he is moved by what he sees, by his desire to articulate it in paint. In these texts he cannot contain his deep love of painting, nature, and being present with them both. I have not come many painters who express such a juicy love of it. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"The wonderful thing about painting is that it provides you with an excuse to sit in one spot long enough to appreciate the quality of changing light and the theatrical effects of the weather on the landscape." Dang right, bruh. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A PRINCE AMONG MEN, A PAINTER AMONG PRINCES.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I like when he mentions the intersection of being Prince Charles and painting. The accompanying text to one painting of a beach describes how just after he settled himself to paint he discovered that a bunch of paparazzi were "crouched in the sand dunes pointing their ridiculously long lenses in my direction." It's funny in this passage he switches to the second person, as if using I would somehow be too revealing. "your imagination plays on the predictable captions to accompany them..."Beach Boy Charlie Paints Alone" or, better still, "Beached Wales – the Potty Prince Revealed!" </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His comments on being a prince and a painter that make be feel lucky to be a painter and not a princess.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ktlCCiNdLXTJu5PdgoZkRkVzyGhpoUioQRb4V3AUX8Z_zVSAkR-wI8Xz6PmrerPNpS6zQpdeafuiSUujVUvpgOoafK7dOK1PPIZSfdgnFa9r1Pbl2mG5lhZXXqWq4gTwM2z9cCauLAg/s1600/EE156555-7664-4311-9076-7D327AE3AD76.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1600" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ktlCCiNdLXTJu5PdgoZkRkVzyGhpoUioQRb4V3AUX8Z_zVSAkR-wI8Xz6PmrerPNpS6zQpdeafuiSUujVUvpgOoafK7dOK1PPIZSfdgnFa9r1Pbl2mG5lhZXXqWq4gTwM2z9cCauLAg/s400/EE156555-7664-4311-9076-7D327AE3AD76.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>HRH The Prince of Wales Watercolors</i> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Jacket Photograph, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">by Lesley Donald</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And while, no C, I cannot relate to your concerns about tabloid headlines, I think I do understand something about you and the way you look at the world. Did I already say I wish we were friends? </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the past couple of years I have been trying to do something similar than is done in this book: I have been looking at paintings and drawings I have made, and trying to say where they come from. Prince Charles describes how they come from within a person and without. This is t</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">he intersection of living and art</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. Part of me wishes he could get even more personal but the future king can only be so candid. Oh well. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All I can say is, no you cannot borrow this book, and <i>L</i></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>ong Live Charles, The Painter of Wales! </i></span><br />
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<br />Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-19715610595461849422020-04-22T09:06:00.001-07:002020-04-28T08:23:56.329-07:00Motive and Intent<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other day I drew, in colored pencil, a
picture of a Digital Touch drawing I made a while ago. Digital Touch
is a texting feature on an iPhone. The drawings are crude and they self-erase
once sent/opened unless you elect to keep them. You draw them with your finger
and when they replay for the recipient there is a glowing mark where your
finger has been; the image appears as it was drawn. It's oddly intimate.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For days I have been wrestling with this
question: can a work of art be honest or dishonest? What does that even mean? I have interrogated the little drawing because I made the drawing and posed the question on the same day. I have no answer yet. I am
still trying to clarify the terms. I began to note words related to honesty: sincere, deceptive, genuine, impersonate, lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I lied about this little drawing. In the
privacy of a draft of whatever I am still hashing out here, I claimed that I drew this
colored pencil drawing because my phone was out of space and I was deleting old
messages (including old digital drawings) I had saved. It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> true that my phone was out of space,
and true that I have been deleting messages. Maybe I <i>did</i> have the thought that
I should draw this image before deleting it. And maybe I situated that fact
next to the act of drawing. There is a gap between the truth and the
whole truth. When I wrote that I drew this because I was deleting images, the
polygraph needle trembled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Motivation is complicated. In thinking about
this I discovered a possible contraction in my motivation when making art in general. The impulse to
make a drawing or painting is driven by the desire to internalize something
and also to get rid of it. It can be a feeling, an attachment to a
person, place, or story. When I draw something, I transfer the subject into my muscle
memory, into my brain’s database. I internalize it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it also becomes something external I can stick in a
drawer or give or throw away. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As of yet I have not figured out whether or not one can be honest in paint. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The interrogating room in one’s head can be as
exhausting. Sometimes confessions, false or true, happen as a result of sheer
fatigue. I confess I made this drawing this image because it mattered to me. As for intentions, I don't know. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The best way to tell the truth is to remain silent.</span><br />
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<br />Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-26237176593510637002020-04-18T12:06:00.000-07:002020-05-05T16:16:39.819-07:00Hand Painted Tube Socks<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqYPNbpgM8AyWi3crySyVkwuSWiMfbfKQjKFx-Nn2_3h0hjgbwOkkyZ3WpT6xQAWQjp-s0ygpKUJl4ZHn451WzOx_Q-n9nsXKan9UFEMDqbGpK6zEDul-OpTClnxxgn31EOaMiAo_8CQ/s1600/14051CF8-14A2-42A0-88D3-1771D6D5ACA0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqYPNbpgM8AyWi3crySyVkwuSWiMfbfKQjKFx-Nn2_3h0hjgbwOkkyZ3WpT6xQAWQjp-s0ygpKUJl4ZHn451WzOx_Q-n9nsXKan9UFEMDqbGpK6zEDul-OpTClnxxgn31EOaMiAo_8CQ/s320/14051CF8-14A2-42A0-88D3-1771D6D5ACA0.jpeg" width="240" /></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is taken almost word for word from a message I sent to Lara:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"one morning my friend and i were going to drive out to Belle Chasse to try and watch the fighter jets take off from the airbase.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">i was wearing black knee socks and said that i wished they were tube socks. i said i <i>could</i> paint them…</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">then my friend said something to the effect of, w<i>hat if people just made the things they thought of instead of thinking about them?</i> I painted red stripes on my socks before we left for the west bank. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the result was not perfect but the action was perfect."</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1y-JKHpRV-IuTV8lCSo9Q1h_tRwqE6of9DzBy9iw-F-EvNuvBX14-caOiJcp0Gryvu_kspx-3ED2o0tZmEk_4Af6Lf3maDNF9e6umpSyi_aCFY4wayYIKQUu_98IuHHZsBExWnEXo34/s1600/F4599A35-D7D9-4C32-8031-CF756A62EEF5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1y-JKHpRV-IuTV8lCSo9Q1h_tRwqE6of9DzBy9iw-F-EvNuvBX14-caOiJcp0Gryvu_kspx-3ED2o0tZmEk_4Af6Lf3maDNF9e6umpSyi_aCFY4wayYIKQUu_98IuHHZsBExWnEXo34/s320/F4599A35-D7D9-4C32-8031-CF756A62EEF5.jpeg" width="240" /></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This morning I shirked my routine. Well, part of it. I got out of bed later than usual. I did not open my laptop and did not open a new document and type the date on top. I went to the kitchen to make coffee and brought it to the table rather than to my desk. I took out all four of my Peter Doig books. I looked at pictures. For the rest of the morning, this would be my hub; I came and went from the table. I drew in colored pencil. I drew a text message. I drew the book I am reading. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Later, I went for a walk and talked to Lara by phone. Those tube socks came up in our conversation and I elaborated to say that in fact the paint had not dried inside the socks and it left rings of wet acrylic paint on my calves. We stopped at an auto parts store so I could wash the paint off at an outside spigot because I became concerned about elements in the paint leeching into my skin. I closed the socks in the back windows to dry the paint outside as we drove. We could not get near the airfield and no jets took off that day. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCTr32C_2Y6QrSL_iGRbSyf1yLtZy97fQ5aLSeOZ4kGf9yDtIGvAREwY5K2UwFXMuSTxYY4iVY27jvi8woIbPE_VfkMk-O78fMGbe5UnlwXEkVEqcINIoLh3LDGHjusxuBMnvf2xhA4Bo/s1600/529FB155-0DD3-43D2-B6D9-8618AEF9DF3C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCTr32C_2Y6QrSL_iGRbSyf1yLtZy97fQ5aLSeOZ4kGf9yDtIGvAREwY5K2UwFXMuSTxYY4iVY27jvi8woIbPE_VfkMk-O78fMGbe5UnlwXEkVEqcINIoLh3LDGHjusxuBMnvf2xhA4Bo/s200/529FB155-0DD3-43D2-B6D9-8618AEF9DF3C.jpeg" style="cursor: move;" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In fact I have not seen jets for over a month and miss them. Well, to be accurate, I saw two and they flew at a much higher altitude than usual. When</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> my friend and I exchanged messages after not being in touch for a couple of weeks, he said he had seen the same two jets. I sent this: </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"i'm having migraines every day. it must be the absence of planes or the presence of seagulls." </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I digress. As was the plan. T</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15.84000015258789px;">he result was not perfect but the action was perfect.</span><br />
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<br />Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-74030989854307185662020-04-17T09:05:00.001-07:002020-04-22T14:13:06.377-07:00Enter The Void - The Walls Inside Part 6 (The End)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>how are you</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The<i> </i>question came from a friend last night by test message. </span><i style="color: #444444; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I am trying to be still but I keep forgetting, </i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">was my response.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My response, not about art or walls, could be translated to an art confession: I am trying to sit with an empty wall, but want to fill it. I guess I, like my children, abhor a vacuum. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Or am just not chill with it. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To the message I added this photo. It's a little watercolor taped to the wall I cleared the other day when I said I was going to sit with that emptiness. I didn't sit long. This is not about interior decorating. I actually prefer empty walls. But these walls were asked to tell the future (and sometimes to tell the past) with respect to the the art I would make (or had made). </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I filled and emptied the wall space above my dresser with this little watercolor of an empty text message and responding ellipsis. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(It's funny to think that a painting can be Apple-specific. Funny or gross, I guess.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This seemed like a valid illustration to my claim that I was <i>trying to be still</i> but kept failing. (deliberate change from forgetting to failing.) </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yesterday I filled the space with a watercolor/colored pencil drawing of a piece of legal paper. Filling a space with space. Filling the void with a void. And then I await an answer...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I address the void, draw it: <i>This is the void; I am fine with that.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am totally not fine with that but I am, as they say, working on it. </span><br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-69800063655889389862020-04-16T02:51:00.000-07:002020-04-22T14:12:20.905-07:00This is Where We Are - The Walls Inside Part 5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsep_frai0gQWG8WvW5L6llip7xI0bBtrHeRsEXwhhIhGUumvEod4ZK5Xt2mVjvLIeZ_cU6RazxvQBqWtjP-Jni0doGEdveiA7SM2b3OYBWwd4GC4DHPkcfSr3EDOOHchjv_z9Hi2BZ8/s1600/A73D83BE-8492-4EE9-97F6-9F79B4F57FAF.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="1080" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsep_frai0gQWG8WvW5L6llip7xI0bBtrHeRsEXwhhIhGUumvEod4ZK5Xt2mVjvLIeZ_cU6RazxvQBqWtjP-Jni0doGEdveiA7SM2b3OYBWwd4GC4DHPkcfSr3EDOOHchjv_z9Hi2BZ8/s400/A73D83BE-8492-4EE9-97F6-9F79B4F57FAF.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It is unseasonably cold in New Orleans. I feel like I would
know this from the light on the wall even if I could not feel this fact. The
wind, in gusts, sounds cold. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am looking at these blank walls. One wall is hardly blank
because the sunlight is flashing on it. There are the two empty hooks where the
painting on paper hung. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It is late (for me), 9 in the morning. My mind is already
full, cluttered. My children are up and talking and moving through the house. I
am sitting on my bed trying to look at blank walls. Children abhor a vacuum.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I want the vacuum to tell me something but walls speak in
soft voices. Tomorrow, when the house is quiet I will be back here listening.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span>Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-15430678212568814422020-04-14T13:55:00.002-07:002020-04-22T14:11:46.988-07:00Saying Nothing - The Walls Inside Part 4<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Before today, my goal was to look at what I had painted, to see where I had been in order to see where I was going. Maybe that failed. Or maybe this <i>was</i> where I was going. It necessarily was.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now my goal is to sit with nothing to see what belongs there. If anything.</span><br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-20915156816351069092020-04-13T09:45:00.002-07:002020-04-22T14:10:51.950-07:00Containing Everything - The Walls Inside Part 3<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My last two posts addressed two paintings on the walls of my bedroom. They were there so I could consider and reconsider them and they would, I thought, inform what I make next. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This painting of the Citadelle de Sisteron (oil on canvas) is on the bedside table. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I first painted the citadel on gessoed paper. I could not initially remember where in southern France the citadel had been so
I sent a message to Michaela who identified the photograph or painting, whichever I sent, as
Sisteron. I was painting on paper but was preparing to move to a larger scale and had ordered beautiful, large stretchers from Maine. At the time, it seemed
I would begin working on this large scale on canvas and stick with it for a while, but the shift in scale (and surface) would inevitably present some problems. The attempt to paint the citadel large
scale (maybe 5 x 6 feet) failed. I had too quickly given up articulating the
large forms and too soon began painting detail. Also, my painting sessions were
too short to make a complete pass on this larger space and on this more thirsty surface. There was no cohesion in the image and the painting was quickly looking
overwrought and unstable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
unstretched the canvas and returned to this smaller scale to try to look more
carefully at the few basic forms that made the composition. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Those days I was committed to making paintings that were self-contained, that said everything they had to say within
their four edges and did not rely on a series or on installation to articulate
something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had also begun to
think of certain source material as having special qualities or special potential. This was opposite of the practice of painting almost arbitrarily images I came across or photographs I had shot from the hip. The special potential I looked for in a photograph to use as source material was that it </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“contained everything.” This was the phrase I gave it. Or, "everything is there." I would go through a pile of photographs and set aside the ones that were different. I relied on a kind of intuition. Then I would have to paint them to really know. I was painting a lot on paper in oil and for the first time in my life returning over and over to the same image. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The photograph painting of the citadel is based on, taken from a car as I drove through
southern France with Michaela, did not on the surface look special. But it
contained a mountain, which had been carved into a citadel. I had believed that this was a monastery and that informed my understanding (or misunderstanding?) of the image. Citadel or monastery, f</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ittingly, at that time I considered
my practice cloistered, private, and detached from any career
intentions or concerns of audience. I had no need to say or write down what I
was doing or why, a kind of vow of silence, so any attempt to put my ideas about a sacred image or a painting containing everything are loose translations of thoughts that occurred without words.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This painting did contain everything I knew in that moment. It is a humble claim and a humble painting because while
it contained everything I knew, I really didn’t know much and what I knew was
vague.</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So this painting, here on
my bedside table is not so much an unfinished thought but one of the last
completed gestures I made before moving out of my studio. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am looking at this painting of the citadel now. My goal was to look at
these paintings on view in my bedroom all along, but I at some point I stopped seeing them. I am
looking at this painting now and I see its derivative passages: the shape of
the trees a little Doig-y, the palette a little more Tuymans-y than is my own,
though black is there and that is for me the essential element. Can something be derivative and honest? </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not to cut myself off (but, yes, to cut myself off), I think it’s time to take these three paintings down and store them. I see now I was not looking at them as I intended to do and they were just taking up space.</span><br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-68772325173067397432020-04-09T06:08:00.002-07:002020-04-22T14:11:12.609-07:00Forgetting to Remember - The Walls Inside Part 2 <div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In my last post I wrote that I sometimes hang my own paintings on my bedroom wall so I can consider unfinished thoughts they embody or because they are positioned between what I made and what I will make next. I do not hang a painting I made on my wall because I think it is some amazing thing. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I painted this acrylic painting on paper (48 x 56 inches) years after spending an evening in the Piazza del
Popolo with Jake and Laura. It was the night Jake and I arrived in Rome, my first trip abroad. When I painted it, the time and place I was thinking back on (fifteen or so years before,</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> the Piazza del Popolo, Rome,</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Italy) seemed to belong to someone else. And now the time and place I painted it (maybe five years ago here in New Orleans), seems to belong to someone else as well.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Is the subject of the painting a tree and some sky or is the subject something else? Is the subject Returning? After all, I directed Google Street View here and not somewhere new and not somewhere I was planning to go. Click by click I returned to circle the piazza, where I spent one evening fifteen or so years before.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hung this painting on my wall so I could look at it again,
so I could answer the questions it poses and get on to other things. It occurs to me that I have only looked at this painting peripherally since hanging it on my wall. Looking at it now is not so pleasant.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is a wrinkle, two actually near the top of the paper. They were made when my
son, two or three years old at the time, fell on the painting, which was rolled up and somewhere safe I thought. There was confusion on his face when
he saw that my concern was for the painting rather than him.</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had seen immediately that he was not hurt, but he</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> was used to see me orbit him, a planet with no name, little gravity of my own. Even if he had gotten a bruise, it would be
healed and forgotten by now as he has forgotten this moment. But the wrinkle in the painting is still there.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The wrinkle was there when I included this painting in a
casual little show in a gallery that would be home to an artist collective for a few
years. The space had just been converted from a daycare to a gallery with
several small studios for rent in the back and it was walking distance from my house. I would have a studio in that building, various spaces actually, four in all, over the next few few years, but I would not join the collective. When we hung the show
I pointed out the wrinkle to one of the other artists. “I sort of like it, she said about the wrinkle.” She followed up with a reason but it was not interesting to me. That
comment has stuck with me and annoyed me and it has outlived the gallery, the studios, and my knowing this person. It doesn't really matter that there is a wrinkle in this painting but it certainly wasn't and isn't some good thing. It is funny that this wrinkle, this scar in the paper, has become such a significant landmark in this painting which is not significant. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The wrinkle is not what makes looking at this painting now, writing about it, sort of unpleasant. Is there a significance to this painting on my wall? Is there a thought or a story behind it? Is it about Jake and Rome and retracing steps, in rummaging in the past? Is it about painting on paper rather than canvas, about working on a new scale and having that experiment cut short when I had to move out of the studio the in the middle of a life upheaval that required all of my resources? It strikes me as funny now that the dominant backstory of this painting seems to be about a wrinkle, an inconsiderate toddler and the tenacity of identity, a comment that for some reason has bothered me for years.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This painting on paper (and not on canvas stretched on the posh
custom stretchers that left my studio with everything else in the back of my friend's pickup truck in the wake of a life upheaval) does not
asked to be considered important. The painting asserts itself only as
a passing thought, and not an idea or belief. There is something immediate in the
image I painted. It is also awkward. The perspective follows the Google Street
View fisheye lens, which I raised upward above the concerns of map navigation to
see the top of that poplar tree.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just as the view overlooking the Mediterranean (in the painting on the opposite wall) was not about David, this painting is not about Jake. But Jake is there somewhere, isn’t he? </span><br />
<div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In the Piazza del Popolo there are four statues,
personifications of the seasons of the year. In Google Street View, years after leaving Rome, I circled
the piazza click by click as one circles the years and then stopped at the spot where we sat
on a bench drinking red wine, Jake and Laura and I. I turned the virtual gaze upward as I turn my physical gaze upward to wonder about this thing that is hanging on my wall. What did I want to remember to think about later? Is there something I am forgetting to remember?</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXRnrRBmoFNwGdyMK3RMfcstYervXr96gUWB7X_h5rJ9apuxJdIgSTR9xrXlWYays3MOPxJJWiSeoHvQvKamw4ROKlS2z68-SbKcBQ2OVJMwt6U9KjRfbkLLyhW9OJ1I_27aICbN9OQs/s1600/28A7653D-0794-4C68-BAA7-85AFFFE2B1F9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXRnrRBmoFNwGdyMK3RMfcstYervXr96gUWB7X_h5rJ9apuxJdIgSTR9xrXlWYays3MOPxJJWiSeoHvQvKamw4ROKlS2z68-SbKcBQ2OVJMwt6U9KjRfbkLLyhW9OJ1I_27aICbN9OQs/s640/28A7653D-0794-4C68-BAA7-85AFFFE2B1F9.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-34946304557750814312020-04-05T07:10:00.002-07:002020-04-13T17:06:18.987-07:00The Walls Inside Part 1: Where Do We Come From...Where Are We Going?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVccL_7qb_hN8YceBzbVV4VXiGAz76Wgyd8aq4h89wgZgaik_ZwYBrm0-r14Q1RPX6B_jK8NadlnbzEhyphenhyphenHxjkSy_uB69dulzOOGn9dHrHu1AR240Qm-GsybsN_xl_Q2IjmQZCVDjliKf0/s1600/MEDMER.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVccL_7qb_hN8YceBzbVV4VXiGAz76Wgyd8aq4h89wgZgaik_ZwYBrm0-r14Q1RPX6B_jK8NadlnbzEhyphenhyphenHxjkSy_uB69dulzOOGn9dHrHu1AR240Qm-GsybsN_xl_Q2IjmQZCVDjliKf0/s640/MEDMER.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The self-isolation mandate and the shutdown of physical
cultural spaces has me looking at my own walls.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Generally I do not decorate my walls with paintings I have
made. (When I display </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">other people’s paintings I don’t really think of them as
decoration either.) But when I used to live in spaces where I rented a single room
and shared a kitchen and bathroom, I would fall asleep and wake up looking at
the paintings I was working on.</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This habit has persisted. Though I am not painting at the moment (other
than little watercolors) I have on the walls of my bedroom two paintings that
represent an unfinished thought. Though the paintings themselves have been
finished for some time, there is in each of them something I will pick up
again.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is an oil painting on paper. I painted it from a
photograph I took in France. I am pausing now, trying to remember if I was with
David when I took this photograph and where exactly it was. It was near the
Mediterranean and David was there for sure. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The composition of this painting is
not a composition I gravitate to, not a composition I have used before that
I can remember. That and the calligraphic black trees not representing my usual
shorthand or gesture make this painting a little alien to me even though I am
the one who painted it. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I notice the halo around the two branches cropped on the
left hand side. I notice the slight curve of the horizon line. There are wisps
of white paint, smoke, that may be exaggerated but that remind me of Provence and the smell of
burning grass. And this is fire territory, there had been fires that year and I
wonder now if my knowledge and memory of fires informed the way I drew the trees, which look charred, though I do not recall the trees in the photograph were burnt. There is pink in the foreground that almost looks like an accident
but reminds me now of when the wind came across the Mediterranean from North Africa sometimes it carried sand
from the Sahara and left it on the windows and cars in outside Marseille. But that had
not happened when this photograph was taken and not when David was there. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">am thinking of how some parts of this painting, the alien facts of these–I do not want to say <i>decisions</i> because when one is painting it becomes a kind of séance, a thing only part under one's control, part not–these marks, these material utterances, seem to come from someone else. But I <i>was</i> someone else when I stood there taking a photograph on the passenger side of the car David had been driving. And I was someone else a couple of years ago when I painted it. And I am someone else now when I am writing about it. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This view is rare for another reason: I have not usually been drawn to representing scenes of the water, views of the sea. Even when I have lived near the water, I spend a lot of time turning around, my back to the water. In beach towns I like to look leave the beach and walk to see things a block or two away. I don't think this painting is really considering at the water. Maybe I remember now, stopping the car with David, looking at the road snaking behind us, looking at the road ahead that went to the sea.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This painting was the result of a gesture of looking around, a gesture I made standing outside of a car in southern France a long time ago. It is also the result of a decision to make a trace of paint on a piece of paper some years later. About a year ago, looking back and squinting forward I hung this painting on the wall. These words are the result of my still standing here trying to figure out where I have come from and where I should go from here.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrYq3AjftjxShAIazG3jN2HK8sFTDHOs-YOSlobizRc2vW6XfRxNOTAvvgwS2DFoGWTshF7lkZuYSUKkBbpsjnL7QCp4yEMTqN7y-9_XApH609kjbAIC4IcyYbJ5KDwgX-KMtRJ3vpcw/s1600/MEDMERROOM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkrYq3AjftjxShAIazG3jN2HK8sFTDHOs-YOSlobizRc2vW6XfRxNOTAvvgwS2DFoGWTshF7lkZuYSUKkBbpsjnL7QCp4yEMTqN7y-9_XApH609kjbAIC4IcyYbJ5KDwgX-KMtRJ3vpcw/s640/MEDMERROOM.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-66494495572372497522020-02-14T04:23:00.002-08:002020-02-17T19:14:27.497-08:00The Best Art I Saw This Week Was a GIF<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtyhb7xx4l4d8h8Mr4r5fCjAStHwyNz_SBFBOxZKHC8e-mLbGyZW0LnGOOU4GefxL86VaN1nqYp7HL8kWTsMvCh6RgV0sdFDzztmNaksiyOp8YBnOtIukuSo8Lb8HYQBjIb95WcOKFQOY/s1600/tenor.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="290" data-original-width="396" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtyhb7xx4l4d8h8Mr4r5fCjAStHwyNz_SBFBOxZKHC8e-mLbGyZW0LnGOOU4GefxL86VaN1nqYp7HL8kWTsMvCh6RgV0sdFDzztmNaksiyOp8YBnOtIukuSo8Lb8HYQBjIb95WcOKFQOY/s640/tenor.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It has been a hard week for my heart, not the medical one,
the other one. I will leave it at that. A GIF is most effective when sent
quickly as a reply, as if it were a card already in your hand, ready to throw down. I Googled “faceplant
GIF” or “face-down GIF” on my phone, on my lunch break, to express to a friend
in one little moving image how I was feeling, or more likely to avoid
expressing seriously how I was feeling.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I found this stunning GIF of Superman. He is lying facedown by
a pastoral wall, his body motionless, a detail emphasized by his
cape blowing in the wind. I admit I was feeling raw anyway but when I saw it my heart (maybe the medical one) contracted. And it issued an electric impulse to my brain that became
this thought: our love relationships serve the purpose of keeping our heart
aware of itself. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our other profound relationships, our friends, family, mentors, these relationships usually do not force us to feel the (not
medical) heart in the same way our love relationships do, like a sickness even. In love, in the
beginning or end or in times our love relationships struggle, the heart makes us aware of itself, a raw and frantic muscle. Falling in love, our
heart feels lung-sized, swollen, electrified, pumped with endorphins and speed. In times of
hurt, it feels like it took a major league pitch, stunning and bruising,
concussing it. When it refuses to feel, it feels calcified, a small, cold stone. This GIF pressed on the bruised, fist-sized (not medical) muscle
of my own heart saying “yes, it hurts right here.” I looked at the GIF all day.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The background in the GIF, which I assume was taken from an
older–maybe water colored episode of Superman?–shows detail and
distance. Beyond the dirt road, the wall, the row of trees, a ploughed field,
there is a tree line. This is our world. I do not think of Superman cartoons as having
particularly developed backgrounds, but the trees are so verdant and there is real
air and atmosphere. I am drawn into that distance but here is Superman in his distinctive, primary
colored costume, his muscles super-developed, and he has been knocked down. It
could have been Kryptonite but it could have been something else, something
more human. Anyway, he is hurt. Superman is hurt. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If art is a designation, not market-made or requiring a special stamp, but determined by
the way something lands in one's sensibility, this is the best art I have seen this
week or month or maybe ever. I can’t stop looking at it even though it hurts.</span></div>
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-40148823282267849522019-09-10T17:31:00.003-07:002022-12-18T06:58:12.107-08:00About Whitespace <div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">Sunday morning I had the
feeling that everything was crushed up against something else. When I texted a friend asking if he had read some book, he
replied that he was salivating at the idea of silence in the house where he
could read for an hour not having had that in a “long long long time.” I
responded that I was fantasizing about whitespace. I wanted to wrap myself in whitespace. I wanted to install whitespace around each thought, action, and obligation. The whitespace would be made of physical space, silence, and time. I drew a bullet point in the
middle of a big, blank text message. He asked me to explain. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB4i2ESf_FwwiVUSEqvyN6A6KYh2e_0I8Tk9GRVDej2WP19jDSDZ9ny5t_kk8_iUCotRBQlEzrtRp4KAW-px9rapG1k0rmElUcFZA39bLvp9JEvZs7lGhhScHqvAr1Iqqmt2srFn4MuRU/s1600/IMG_9812.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="color: #444444;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #444444;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gv33pkYHaa9_FM6CZVZVRUVmYnrxhXF3ygoAICS1cH6RlmuUxqGtsKaxEnGg1BeU-0H4Y3EreFapU44HQmD45QjJ2cCbZDqYWAwlO5hzyLZLcD9jihpLExFXjui77aF0gFK5H5V8hBo/s1600/IMG_9795.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gv33pkYHaa9_FM6CZVZVRUVmYnrxhXF3ygoAICS1cH6RlmuUxqGtsKaxEnGg1BeU-0H4Y3EreFapU44HQmD45QjJ2cCbZDqYWAwlO5hzyLZLcD9jihpLExFXjui77aF0gFK5H5V8hBo/s200/IMG_9795.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: xx-small;">Student Work</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>White space in art is also called "negative space." When I was teaching foundational drawing to first-year college students, I used chairs to demonstrate negative space. Students would draw, in charcoal pencil, the contour not of the chairs but the space surrounding the chairs. The students would then fill in the shapes made by outlining the background, in other words the negative space. The shape of chairs would emerge. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">These days, it’s as if nothing has negative space around it. One thing (one responsibility, email to answer, thing to order) overlaps another. Therefore, it is hard to see the shape of things.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";">I like reading books with lots of whitespace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: #444444;">The White Cube is a term describing a certain art gallery aesthetic. The white
cube is whitespace in cubic feet. I like the white
cube. I like the controlled context, the
minimizing of distractions, and the implied assertion that what you see in here attempts to address the notion
that things have meaning.<br />
<br />I would like to put everything in my life in
its own white cube, not only the painting I am working on, but the Entergy bill, my
broken car window, my son’s socks on the floor. Then maybe I could see what they all mean.<br />
<br />
And people, everyone to whom I owe a phone call or an hour, I’d like to put
them in—or more politely, invite them to—a white cube gallery. I could go and
see them in the near-void. Maybe it would be like Marina Abramović’s <i><a href="https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/marina-abramovic-marina-abramovic-the-artist-is-present-2010/" target="_blank">The Artist is Present </a> </i>without all of those museum-goers watching. <i>(Meet me at the
white cube at 4 o’clock. I will see you—like really see you—there.) </i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsRtcMfaeQ6MTVruvNk8IevJX_9GdQGnvr0MTlkfGdJQrRR6vooTYb_hyVjWng8SqgVJc48uxXwO_nbYtqW8A6V0P9jNHcadIw0wZwToKlfe2-0k-Hwkwx7td0c1tbRibKi4punSo8As/s1600/drop+off.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsRtcMfaeQ6MTVruvNk8IevJX_9GdQGnvr0MTlkfGdJQrRR6vooTYb_hyVjWng8SqgVJc48uxXwO_nbYtqW8A6V0P9jNHcadIw0wZwToKlfe2-0k-Hwkwx7td0c1tbRibKi4punSo8As/s320/drop+off.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span>All day Monday I thought about whitespace. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span>I turned off NPR to try to hear the whitespace. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span>I
imagined my sons surrounded by it as they walked into school. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span>I took a photo of
my yard and whitewashed everything but the ladder to the shed roof </span></span><span style="color: #444444;">(roofs are great for finding whitespace) </span><span style="color: #444444;">and the palm
trees. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span>And last night I
looked in my art books for whitespace (<a href="http://www.regenprojects.com/exhibitions/toba-khedoori?view=slider" target="_blank">Toba Khedoori</a>, </span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><a href="https://www.nga.gov/exhibitions/2018/rachel-whiteread.html" target="_blank">Rachel Whiteread</a>, <a href="https://www.thomasdanegallery.com/exhibitions/28/overview/" target="_blank">Michael Landy</a>...).<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_MzFIbD6-WLy_QKT_2dL_TH7UbAn269WFpWaiboGXNH_x0R3qcTXca6atkikQOQ0-U_ELc52rVi04j8bv3cVu5PTaFdniXpD4PoJmXqKVEtwRlXb_G4Vz4W_ZrcEMdX5PcuezrPgfjQ/s1600/0784118A-6B59-4A11-9661-8E9E5850BBA3.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_MzFIbD6-WLy_QKT_2dL_TH7UbAn269WFpWaiboGXNH_x0R3qcTXca6atkikQOQ0-U_ELc52rVi04j8bv3cVu5PTaFdniXpD4PoJmXqKVEtwRlXb_G4Vz4W_ZrcEMdX5PcuezrPgfjQ/s640/0784118A-6B59-4A11-9661-8E9E5850BBA3.jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">My Books</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;">This morning, it occurred to me that whole breath thing with yoga might be about creating internal whitespace.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQb1qJdTOTYvodEfSBfRY3mut40yt2QX4ABSJ8hO7RCixDt7xBjaTdcKHAsgca0-NHiUVdBz0nAg6GUURoxBXkSuvYJOu4uIVeUjC7j8fhRcd3GZqQZ0LMIenZQzhTr-evMlg3EdNuUE/s1600/Screen+shot+2019-09-10+at+6.23.13+AM.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="616" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQb1qJdTOTYvodEfSBfRY3mut40yt2QX4ABSJ8hO7RCixDt7xBjaTdcKHAsgca0-NHiUVdBz0nAg6GUURoxBXkSuvYJOu4uIVeUjC7j8fhRcd3GZqQZ0LMIenZQzhTr-evMlg3EdNuUE/w332-h358/Screen+shot+2019-09-10+at+6.23.13+AM.png" width="332" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;"><i>l(a</i> by e.e. cummings</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: #444444;">e.e. cummings knew a thing or two about whitespace.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span>
<span><span style="color: #444444;"></span></span><br />
<span><span style="color: #444444;"></span></span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;">I guess this is not new to
me. As I was writing I remembered a painting I made in grad school that
was about ten feet wide and four feet tall. It was all white except for on one
side a silhouette of a man and on the other a silhouette of a dog. I found other images of old work that also prove this is
not the first time I have thought about or engaged in whitewashing, if that is what it is.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGNOJt3U2Ccmj-PHhQHAZQsJK8qoobjt8xezzc_-C1zR5NaB2E5rKNXQxzgPQDJUUjfcUs55Q9oZHXg4JHqzu4WikLHmS0rYhyphenhyphencMCL3FON_BlAjDG9JXpL8oaY5KY8Oi6Sd1uJnMtNFo/s1600/IMG_6983.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGNOJt3U2Ccmj-PHhQHAZQsJK8qoobjt8xezzc_-C1zR5NaB2E5rKNXQxzgPQDJUUjfcUs55Q9oZHXg4JHqzu4WikLHmS0rYhyphenhyphencMCL3FON_BlAjDG9JXpL8oaY5KY8Oi6Sd1uJnMtNFo/s320/IMG_6983.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">Untitled, In-Progress Grad School Painting</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhwpDo97fHsPAOJqmrsMpr5U1W7llAIgH47ngjq_m4KWyskWe7R2-RbWNnE0rT2S0jOKL8UnS5BLlV9XLhvHsGcyZYM1b2w-YDyOklqfiTGqsiVbYkPAXvFVvLnLkep1ZEcKHFqyTMnM/s1600/IMG_6984.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhwpDo97fHsPAOJqmrsMpr5U1W7llAIgH47ngjq_m4KWyskWe7R2-RbWNnE0rT2S0jOKL8UnS5BLlV9XLhvHsGcyZYM1b2w-YDyOklqfiTGqsiVbYkPAXvFVvLnLkep1ZEcKHFqyTMnM/s320/IMG_6984.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">Untitled, Grad School Painting (detail)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #444444;">If I could have a
superpower right now, this would be it: </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">to make space where there isn’t enough space, </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">quiet where there isn’t enough quiet, </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">and time with nothing in it where
there is no time with nothing in it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">I am more human than super. And like almost everyone I know, I am overwhelmed. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">But after thinking about whitespace I am committed </span><span style="color: #444444;">to try to find more whitespace, </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">to profit from nothingness, </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444;">and maybe where I can't find space, time, or silence, try to create it.</span><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcUs52YGWQ83g_BcojQ6fLj3uUeYGu8YvjY_MD3z2kdT_CDz7_-Mgu0o1IagHZkSsuGy3INO6E4QLntYWusceSrv5tQ3ZRIZV7MjmgeKgJ3NnFnH2NI2oXxrL9fZFzo9FVbPYShD4MlM/s1600/ladder.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcUs52YGWQ83g_BcojQ6fLj3uUeYGu8YvjY_MD3z2kdT_CDz7_-Mgu0o1IagHZkSsuGy3INO6E4QLntYWusceSrv5tQ3ZRIZV7MjmgeKgJ3NnFnH2NI2oXxrL9fZFzo9FVbPYShD4MlM/s640/ladder.jpeg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">Yard With Whitespace</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">Untitled (People on a Beach in California) Acetone Print With Graphite and Colored Pencil</span></td></tr>
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-69374946195822490432019-02-17T17:51:00.004-08:002019-02-18T03:41:26.882-08:00Three Paintings by Patch Somerville at The Front<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">AROUND 100 WORDS</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbdq_YJ8W7yVbSLnCUSxHE0z6VRoim9ltLOguzEW3m8CnYYyVBoaTuoeuLrsMjrKK86BVR9Vw9LgP2PwFExpDK-7tbmYxxHn22kdoy2bb9WkVSSsFn9bKrQDuq_iXYodcvua8ajf9j_0/s1600/IMG_6046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbdq_YJ8W7yVbSLnCUSxHE0z6VRoim9ltLOguzEW3m8CnYYyVBoaTuoeuLrsMjrKK86BVR9Vw9LgP2PwFExpDK-7tbmYxxHn22kdoy2bb9WkVSSsFn9bKrQDuq_iXYodcvua8ajf9j_0/s640/IMG_6046.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>(Above, Below Left, Below Right</i>) Patch Somerville at the Front</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: start;">The two larger, more figurative, more advantageously placed paintings broke the spell of the three smaller, more interesting ones. Of the small paintings, one suggested landscape, one still life, one, portraiture. They formed a trio about genre, subverting genre expectations at the same time. Nothing novel, but the voice was distinct and believable. These paintings were also about paint and painting as most good paintings are, to the faithful, anyway. There was no list of works, and the gallery attendant could not tell me if the paintings were titled or not. Bummer.</span><br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-81962456593748225422019-02-04T05:33:00.002-08:002019-02-06T16:13:52.523-08:00Art Books<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">AROUND 100 WORDS</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjovnoMm4EGFtPY6hIRcftZBfXW2Kqia4N1jwK7dpFk3QNnvY-wVz5fAPbTlEmit7-Y5QWJe5z0wndFF0lzxI-Q_q2o5k4xn4Dyo6Iv0J6xtlRP2Pmclg6KWS7ipuB8IMHFA6ERlE2422s/s1600/FA068352-1D99-431E-B3D5-BD36A5D5E79D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1561" data-original-width="1600" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjovnoMm4EGFtPY6hIRcftZBfXW2Kqia4N1jwK7dpFk3QNnvY-wVz5fAPbTlEmit7-Y5QWJe5z0wndFF0lzxI-Q_q2o5k4xn4Dyo6Iv0J6xtlRP2Pmclg6KWS7ipuB8IMHFA6ERlE2422s/s200/FA068352-1D99-431E-B3D5-BD36A5D5E79D.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Vitamin P: New Perspectives in Painting</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stopped buying art books when I moved to New Orleans. Our
apartment didn’t have central air. Mold and probably insects were consuming my
collection. We, a family of three then four, didn’t have the resources to
sustain this habit nor was I in the same mind-set. As a grad student or a young(ish)
painter living in New York, I had been addicted to Phidon art book porn, the glossy,
sexy, presentations that one could heavy-breathe over in some craigslist dump.
They took these big messy things—paintings—and made them intimate, private,
your connection to them felt real. You too would be a star.</span></div>
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</div>
Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-71809928312422105022018-11-13T04:07:00.000-08:002018-11-19T04:16:33.892-08:00Village Disco, Displacement, and David Bordett at the Front<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDp84dGpveQMSBpjuXOiFFB8ljMY9WJenldbD1_IVSa3Iq_03iguHt4zJMmXUB_SeS-CfkgGkfL9e1aDUPS_RxjTCR3TP_SxvxxOp5_gvP16OuMqPK1vkU1VozcG6EMIG_ahAIbaf5AXI/s1600/IMG_4335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDp84dGpveQMSBpjuXOiFFB8ljMY9WJenldbD1_IVSa3Iq_03iguHt4zJMmXUB_SeS-CfkgGkfL9e1aDUPS_RxjTCR3TP_SxvxxOp5_gvP16OuMqPK1vkU1VozcG6EMIG_ahAIbaf5AXI/s400/IMG_4335.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">David Bordett, <i>The Patient Gothic Chisel, </i>The Front</span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I was at Holly’s drinking an Aperol spritzer.
Tom, who is a writer, was sitting across from me. I don’t know Tom well but I
see him from time to time at the grocery store, at literary or art events and
we have some friends in common including Holly. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Tom asked me why I had stopped
writing my blog, which I kept for two years and stopped writing in 2016. He
turned to his wife and said, "She was writing a blog about displacement.
It was called…” and he looked at me. "Village Disco,” I said.</span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">That was more than a month ago and I am still
thinking about what Tom said: <i>A blog about displacement. </i>I had
believed I was writing a blog about art. </span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“The election.” I said, answering Tom’s question
about why I had stopped writing my blog in 2016. Everyone nodded slowly as if
saying, <i>well, of course</i>. But it wasn’t quite true that I stopped writing
about art because of the election; it definitely wasn’t the whole truth. The
last post I wrote was a response to the election, and after the election I did
feel a version of what the late night comedians would say in those days
“…because nothing matters anymore.” In fact, it was not that art mattered less
to me at that time, but that it mattered more. I wanted to be in the quiet of the studio
painting more than I wanted to be looking at and writing about art exhibitions.
At the time I was painting landscapes from photographs I had taken of the
Luxembourg gardens and Parc des Buttes Chaumont in Paris. I was also painting a pine tree that had been in the yard of the house where I lived near Marseille in
2004.</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">Five out of six of us around the table at Holly’s had moved to New Orleans from New York about a decade ago and within months of each other. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The conversation had moved to New
York and what living back there, now, would be like: the cramped living spaces, the pleasure of reading on the subway,
and that here we have our own yards for our children to play in. </span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A blog about displacement.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Had this been a blog about displacement? I went
back and had a look at my blog entries, keeping an eye out for clues. I found
that I often asserted my expectations of a gallery, complaining when work was
hung too high or too cramped, but couldn’t those expectations have formed anywhere
including New Orleans? Maybe not. I wrote a whole piece about the weird habit
many New Orleans galleries had of playing background music as if a gallery were
a furniture store. In that post I do not reference other places but I think the
way I refer to New Orleans is accented, obviously not native. A glaring “I’m
not from here” post was my reaction to the Katrina reflection show titled </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">Ten
Years Gone</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> at NOMA and my irritation at a reviewer who seemed miffed that
not all of the work or artists screamed NOLA! at the viewer. I mention in
various posts and in various ways that my expectations were formed elsewhere,
my New York perspective transported in my carpetbag. Like this, in the second
post on the blog I wrote:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The expectations I arrived with
were formed in New York and New York is easy to feel homesick for even if it is
not your place of birth, even if you (sometimes) remember well all its
frustrations on many fronts including art. The thing about making and looking
at art in New York is that is so, serious. Also, it feels part of something
global. When I moved here I couldn't even get a handle on the local use of the
vocabulary I thought was universal in contemporary art.</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I end the post with a nostalgic Google Street
View grab of West 19</span><sup><span style="font-size: 6.5pt;">th</span></sup><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> Street and wrote as if trying to convince myself, “<span style="background: white;">I live</span> <i><span style="background: white;">here</span></i>
<span style="background: white;">now, in New Orleans; David Zwirner does not. I’m
okay with that. Mostly.”</span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Displacement. Displacement. I repeated the word
until I almost lost its meaning. And what does this have to do with art?</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I told Holly and Tom and the others that last
summer I stayed alone in my brother’s Bronx apartment when he was out of town.
One night I had the windows open. I stood by the open window and I thought,
funny, it’s quieter here than in my house in New Orleans and the air smells
better. I thought vaguely of the word, <i>belonging</i>. The next day I went to the Met
and looked at French paintings of gardens and parks.</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Lately, I have been considering writing about
art again. Tom's comment about displacement kept mixing with that consideration and so I went to see what was on view at The Front.</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">In the second gallery there was a show of works
by David Bordett titled <i>The Patient Gothic Chisel</i>. There were three sculptural
works and one photograph on view.</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DnrXXFRb0G0JACCs767TxnBOolPHmJuMwc5YyX-IYqorVdJPvyQJHvjyALs3t-z1HR_KFk65RCKXego9uO00vloY9nWNGWYk71v_EHdK-n5B6Hme7hQfQ383Kic_Q4FZrSlPqeglJME/s1600/IMG_3915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DnrXXFRb0G0JACCs767TxnBOolPHmJuMwc5YyX-IYqorVdJPvyQJHvjyALs3t-z1HR_KFk65RCKXego9uO00vloY9nWNGWYk71v_EHdK-n5B6Hme7hQfQ383Kic_Q4FZrSlPqeglJME/s320/IMG_3915.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The wall labels for sculptural works were
detailed and abundant lists of materials. When an artist does this, the
materials can take on a kind of poetic weight. Included in the list of media on
the wall label next to <i>Reliquary</i> was “Christian Louboutin red flocking”
and “stalactites recovered from the exterior of the cloisters.” I asked the
artist (who was gallery-sitting that day) to clarify a couple things. “What is
Christian Louboutin flocking?” I asked (outing myself as more of sneaker and
boot type) and by “the cloisters” did he mean “The Cloisters?” as in the New
York museum. Once I had that information (Louboutin, the fashion designer of
the red-bottomed stilettos, and yes, The Cloisters) I went back and looked at
the piece for a long time. It was hard not to enjoy the light-absorbent red
fabric, the meticulous (Gothic?) details including the lancet window cubby that
held the relic, the so-labeled stalactite from the outside of the cloisters. </span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I remembered the first time I visited The
Cloisters on an afternoon many years ago. It was spring, and I had taken the
subway north to Washington Heights, to a part of the city that was new to me.
And I remember daffodils and the view of the Hudson River looking almost like a
painting from another another era. The air was new and clean-smelling. I was
with my sister and it is one of my fondest memories of being with her, though
the memory is thin in story and detail. My memory merged with the “relic” in
the gallery and I thought, memory itself is a relic that cannot be encased. </span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Next to <i>Reliquary</i> was a photograph. It
pictured the base of a stone wall, part of a recessed column, and an outlet
with an iPhone charger and phone plugged into it. Last summer when I was at the
Met with a dying phone battery. I stopped near a little display of books and
things to buy, not near any artworks, and I plugged in my phone. A minute or
two later I was politely told by a passing guard that I could not plug in my
phone there. Looking at the photograph I let out a little, spontaneous laugh.
This photograph was one of those artworks that was completed not on the wall
but in my mind as the viewer. The particular sum of my traveled path—the
cloisters all those years ago, my attachment to old European stone, my
experience last summer at the Met, and my vague and persistent longing that
envelopes art, Europe, and New York—made this work speak to me. It was not a
blockbuster work of art but it moved me. </span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The title of the photograph was <i>The Patient Gothic
Chisel</i>. The photograph’s title made a funny little comparison between the sturdy tool
that had presumably shaped the stones pictured and the fragile and antsy little iPhone sucking up electricity, loaded with concerns about being liked.</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">My experience of the remaining two pieces in the
show paled in comparison, though, as I have admitted, this comparison is based
largely on subjective and nostalgia-tinged experience. The two remaining works
stirred no memory, and so for me operated as a bit of pleasing eye candy. The
unicorn (titled <i>Superleggera</i>) was easy to like though I thought the
painted unicorn and color on the base were redundant and unnecessarily
distracting. The piece titled <i>Many Paths</i> seemed both democratic and
slightly cynical, saying something between Joseph Campbell’s <i>The Hero with a
Thousand Faces</i> and “Whatever.” </span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Before I left I talked for a while with the
artist. He said he used to live in New Orleans, comes back frequently, but now
lives in New York. I did not know the neighborhood he named when I asked where
in the city he lives. This happens more and more. I asked about Greenpoint like
it was an old friend. I have not been back to Greenpoint for a few years now,
maybe avoiding it when I return to New York because everyone I knew there is
gone, and on the streets one hears more English than Polish which makes me uncomfortably wistful. Two women visiting the gallery overheard us talking and said they were
from New York, neighborhood: Williamsburg. We all talked for a while about
neighborhoods here and there, rent prices here and there, and art here and
there.</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Before I left I told David Burdett that I have a
friend, Holly, who used to work at the Cloisters. But she lives here now. I’d
like for her to see your show. </span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">David Bordett, <i>Reliquery</i>, The Front</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f60PlBfrMpOcK7uuY65bKFf5Y_q3hUpyVgbwI0phPYrHpve5BK70qQ8bOJRYbVYL7sVUKSV2SpGeLlU9uhqEUvbQQ6VQ3lVdrZwzQ09KI56ZqAOyb7czvzunpWM7Vsv6rGVyR49Iy2M/s1600/IMG_4336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f60PlBfrMpOcK7uuY65bKFf5Y_q3hUpyVgbwI0phPYrHpve5BK70qQ8bOJRYbVYL7sVUKSV2SpGeLlU9uhqEUvbQQ6VQ3lVdrZwzQ09KI56ZqAOyb7czvzunpWM7Vsv6rGVyR49Iy2M/s640/IMG_4336.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">David Bordett, <i>Superleggera,</i> The Front</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhwVualCGJJuqRxsd9FjJVMXUp8fCwPWrlIj0_kIMl_TJptNTKQ-JXth7rSkcvtDoTej_e4poYJOqVvY78KiOYf1XVdbyyuOpfmpJ6DFxJ9Rp1yQdFx408z5yULkWCXUvDx39qUhO1rk/s1600/IMG_3919.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1180" data-original-width="1600" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhwVualCGJJuqRxsd9FjJVMXUp8fCwPWrlIj0_kIMl_TJptNTKQ-JXth7rSkcvtDoTej_e4poYJOqVvY78KiOYf1XVdbyyuOpfmpJ6DFxJ9Rp1yQdFx408z5yULkWCXUvDx39qUhO1rk/s640/IMG_3919.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">David Bordett, <i>Many Paths</i>, The Front</span></td></tr>
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6835428029309107970.post-65366811817026092222016-11-17T21:39:00.002-08:002018-11-15T07:42:28.639-08:00May I Recommend....Art<div class="p1">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>Seeing Nature: Landscape Masterworks From The Paul G. Allen Family Collection</i>, NOMA</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>And the Collection at the New Orleans Museum of Art</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Count me among the heartsick. On Tuesday, a week after election day, thinking it was Wednesday, which is to say the free day at NOMA, I went to see the exhibition <i>Seeing Nature: Landscape Masterworks From The Paul G. Allen Family Collection</i>. When I handed over my Louisiana ID, the admissions lady told me "That's tomorrow. but for what it's worth, tomorrow will be crowded; today you'll almost have the galleries to yourself." Sold. As it turned out the quiet of near-empty galleries alone was worth the price of admission. But there was something else–</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I went directly to the landscape exhibit*. On my right was a large painting by April Gornik flanked by two Richters. Gornik's paintings have always annoyed me. While something about her work resonates, maybe subject or scale, I find her palette and surface lack insight. Her paintings often remind me of one of those school folders from the 1980s or a poster in a college dorm room. But seeing her painting in this show was like seeing a high school acquaintance in an unexpected place, grievances all but forgotten with the simple pleasure of familiarity. At NOMA, in the middle of a national/personal crisis, I found myself surrounded by old friends. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am a painter and these are my people. I have known all of these painters for much of my life. Some I loved in my youth. There was Maxfield Parish, painter of my preteen romantic self. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">David Hockney reminds me of the college days with the club kids and ravers; the acid palette in his painting of the Grand Canyon brought this back. I liked Hopper when I was young...Hopper the draftsman, the poet, not really a painter's painter...still, it was still so good to see him there. Avery, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Monet. It was like meeting old friends at a disaster relief shelter where philosophical or stylistic differences suddenly seem inconsequential. I am not a fan of the Surrealists but I was so happy to see Max Ernst, that weirdo. Gerhard Richter! Many years ago I had an impossible crush on Richter's work, big, handsome, a bit aloof, paintings I could never really get to know beyond formalities. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cezanne's Mont Sainte Victoire painting brought on a spell of homesickness –I once lived near Saint Victoire–the dual recognition of brushstroke and place. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> And Klimt, whose landscapes feel like nostalgia for places never been but have always longed to see. And Caneletto. Caneletto, always so buttoned up and void of humidity. And Turner, Oh, Turner...where would I be without you? This show filled me with, oddly, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">affection</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> and such gratitude as if they had all come here for me.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On a less personal note, the show is full of B sides of A-listers, which was part of the value of the show. It felt both fresh and familiar.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I left the landscape show and </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">went up to the third floor. There, in the quiet galleries full of old things, the faces of thousands of years looked back at me. We have been here a long, long time, they said. If walking among the paintings downstairs was like being among old friends, this was like standing among the Ancestors, the ghosts of civilization.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Faces and also objects, the evidence that we have lived, that we were here. Objects I have seen dozens of times before on previous visits came into focus. And words: a Japanese poem about a plum. Maybe it was that all that silence that stood in contrast to the past week, but I felt like I could breathe again. The air in a museum is unique.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the second floor--I was heading for the exit--I just sort of drifted through the European paintings: a garden in Paris, a woman with sad eyes, winter at Giverny, a small plate of peaches. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I thought of a poem I have memorized in English and Polish. I may have mentioned it before because it enters my thoughts frequently. It is by Wisława Szymborska and is called, in English, <i>Notes on a Himalayan Expedition Not Made.**</i> In the poem the speaker is calling out to Yeti, listing the redeemable qualities of humanity: </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yeti, we have Shakespeare.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yeti, we play the violin.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yeti, at dusk</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">we turn on the light.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All week I had consumed an excess of news, wine, and leftover Halloween candy, tonics and exacerbators to my nerves. Seven days after election day I still felt not only bruised, but doubled over and unable to catch my breath, each news cycle like more blows. I caught my breath at the museum. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This visit to NOMA did not erase the reality beyond its cloister, but it did feel something like a disaster shelter of the spirit. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We have Shakespeare. We play the violin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">* <a href="http://www.phillipscollection.org/events/2016-02-06-exhibition-seeing-nature" target="_blank">Here</a> is a link to many of the paintings in <i>Seeing Nature</i>. No photos allowed but I didn't have a camera anyway. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">**Translation by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire</span><br />
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Emily Farrantohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11478769691979853020noreply@blogger.com3